In the Morning, Noon, and Night
by BrittanyOXYMORON
Summary: [DanaxLogan Trilogy] There were no windows. He couldn’t look outside, but he was okay with that. If he looked outside, he would only think about something. And whenever he thinks about something, it always reminds him of her. COMPLETE
1. Morning

This will be a three chapter trilogy.

**In the Morning, Noon, and Night**

_"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." –Edgar Allan Poe_

**Morning**

It was in the morning when he first saw her face. It was a lovely shade of brown he couldn't pick out anywhere else. Her cheeks had a tint of pink highlighting her cheekbones, and he couldn't tell if it was her natural blush or makeup. When his gaze traveled upward to see her gleaming eyes, he knew there was something different that stirred inside him.

It wasn't exactly brown, or hazel. It was almost a cross in between, if you could have a cross between the two eye colors. They were mostly a deep brown, but still had specks of amber and a hint of green swirling inside the brown.

He tried to find that shade of brown too, but he never could.

Calling her skin and eyes brown is being too blunt. They aren't just brown- they're so much more. In fact, they were so much more to him that he couldn't even explain the magnitude of those beautiful eyes.

He didn't think himself to be normal after that morning. He was fourteen years of age, a mere boy.

It could be exaggerated, and said that from that point on, his life was changed forever- but that's being blown out of proportion. It wasn't 'changed' just different.

…Simply different.

That morning the first of September was the moment his life had not changed, but was different. Those eyes and face stuck with him, until he couldn't contain it any longer. She was like a drug, and he couldn't help himself from staring.

He stared.

He stares.

He will stare.

It's foreseeable of course. Except another feeling inside him stirred. He couldn't just keep watching her, he wanted to touch her. At times he could feel himself about to reach out, and just touch her skin. It seemed psychotic at times to have such a feeling but he didn't care. It's what her effortless existence did to him.

Her smell!

He couldn't even begin to describe her smell. It had been a mix of whipped cream and sugar. It's an odd combination, but his senses remembered that mixture. He never forgot it, and whenever his senses lit up from that aroma around him- he knew she was nearby.

He had felt like a dog… in more ways than one.

His keen eyes roamed over her, while his nose would currently be in heaven. He didn't believe in love at first site, so he only pushed aside whatever was inside of him- calling it lust at first site.

Every second he was near her, talked to her, or god forbid- touch her- he blamed it all on his teenage boy desire.

He did remember however, the second she opened that cab door and walked out.

It was a picture captured in his memory, and sometimes the background changes its contents. And sometimes even the cab will look different in his mind- but the thing that stays constant is her gorgeous face. Her hand was pulling down her sunglasses as she gazed out at PCA.

He wanted to draw that picture out on paper, or paint it on a canvas but everyone knows he has no art skills to do such a thing.

Instead he relies on his memory. Not always the smartest thing to do, but there is nothing else that can be done.

In his mind he recalls little snippets of their first conversation but sadly enough his mind was re-wound and re-played one too many times, like a VCR that the video in his mind broke. He dreamt it a billion different ways, and thought of all the possibilities of every body movement she had directed in those couple minutes. He thought it so much; he couldn't even remember what exactly happened.

But he gazes at her face now, and everything is different.

Everything seems so distant.

She's not the same, and everything gets replayed in his mind.

It all seems like one long dream.

I could possibly still be one, if he can awake before the mix of browns is joined with dirt.

**XXX**


	2. Noon

This is the second installment of three.

**In the Morning, Noon, and Night**

_"We loved with a love that was more than love."_ –Edgar Allan Poe

**Noon**

It was in the noon when he first fell in love with her. It was an odd feeling, really. He couldn't decipher it's meaning, and he couldn't find any hidden attachments to this exhilarating revelation. He had grown closer to her, and her brilliant brown's- but never thought his desire could turn into love.

He pondered the word and its world-changing meaning one afternoon. Of why two people fell in love, or even what love was.

A question like that is in the vein of saying 'where did god come from?' No matter how many billion stories there are or how many philosophies- no one will ever know. They might find out when they die, but for the humans here on Earth, there's no hope in discovering the answer.

He doubts there is an answer to be honest.

It's just a four letter word that makes the world spin on its axis.

He remembers sitting across from her on the light beige flooring. He never re-played this moment in his head too many times for he didn't want to risk mixing anything up, or breaking the video in his mind.

He's already meddled with his brain too much, and the moment of when he realized he was in love he wouldn't risk losing. It's his only other one hundred percent true recollection in his life other than the picture etched into his mind of when she first walked out of the cab.

In this memory though nothing changes, not the backgrounds contents or even the simple color of her shirt she wore. He won't interfere much more with his precious reminiscence for the fear of losing.

She was writing in one of her journals. The journal was green, he remembered that clearly. However, he wasn't sure why. He knew green wasn't one of her favorite colors- in fact she frankly didn't like the color- but he recalled her telling him about her father giving it to her. It was one of those sentimental gifts one receives, and he got her logic. If he got a meaningful gift, he wouldn't care what color it was- just the context.

He had asked her what she was writing, but she wouldn't tell him.

"Please?" He begged while running his hands over the carpet surrounding the both of them as if they were on a stranded ship out in the ocean.

"I can't let you see it!" She declared, but he began scooting closer to her. "No, you get away from me," she playfully swatted at his outstretched arm.

The lights were dim, and the outside was dark. He had known curfew would be up soon, but he could care less. The lights in her dorm room gave off an almost reddish glow. Her face now had a brown-red look to it which made her even more gorgeous than before. He didn't think that quite possible, but apparently it was.

"Why not?" He questioned.

"Because…" She contemplated for a moment before answering, "It's a secret."

He tried pouncing on her to retrieve the journal, but she was too quick for him. She was on her feet clutching her green journal to her chest.

"Nice try," she commented while smiling, and he crossed his arms in a childish way.

But as he took a second glance at her with her (what was now a dark olive green, due to the reddish light) journal, he realized he was in love. She stood there in all her gorgeous brown glory and he couldn't help but_ stare._

He was still staring at her now at this precise moment, but it wasn't the same. He realized he rewound and replayed his most precious memory and was terrified of losing it.

He was staring at her now, as the people passed by with tissues in their hands- wishing it was only a dream he would soon wake up to. But nowadays he couldn't tell if it was reality or his dream. He was still staring with enough emotion to knock out the whole world.

But everything is still different.

She's still so distant.

She's unlike herself, and he's terrified that he replayed his most prized recollection.

_It seems like one long dream._

_I could possibly still be one, if he can awake before the mix of browns is joined with dirt._

**XXX**


	3. Night

This is the final installment.

**In the Morning, Noon, and Night**

"_All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream…"_

And it was in the night in which she died. It's not really what you think. But it felt just as if she did. He was standing at what felt like a funeral, but it wasn't. How odd.

He couldn't really tell what his brain was trying to process at the current moment. All he could see even though he wasn't sure if it was really what he was seeing was four white walls surrounding him. He didn't want to look down, or up, or to any other side besides the way he was facing. Staring at the friendly white wall.

He claims it's friendly, because it's not a busy white. Yes, there are different views of white. It wasn't one of those bright eye-hurting whites. It was a softer calmer white. He needed the peaceful white to look at. He needed this distraction.

He was contempt with doing that for now.

He clutched her journal closer to his chest afraid someone could run by and steal it at any given second. He flipped a few pages until he landed on her favorite entry. He read the words which were spilled onto the page as tears began to brim his eyes.

He stopped. He closed her journal and he returned to staring.

He seemed to _stare_ too often.

All his life he stared, never expecting one to be staring at him.

That was until the one day he met her. He was watching everyone around him, but his eyes landed on her (like they usually end up doing anyways) and she was staring back. She was startled for a moment, and so was he. But she didn't look away.

He didn't either.

They locked eyes for moments, seconds, maybe minutes- he didn't know nor did he really care how long.

All he knew was that it wasn't long enough.

Someone bumped into him, and he was startled again from staring at the white wall. How odd.

He could have sworn no one was around him, or maybe that was just in his thoughts.

"Excuse me Sir," the woman said briefly before beginning to walk away. But she stopped.

"That was your wife wasn't it?" She asked after a moment of looking at him.

"Yes it was."

The woman in the black jacket seemed to have a deep pitiful look on his face. He hated how she used the words "that was…" He hated it deeply.

"It wasn't right the way she… went," the woman spoke softly. He didn't reply. He noticed her stumble for the right words. "If I were to find that drunken driver…" she rambled on.

"I'm so sorry," she interrupted herself before pulling him into a tight embrace. He wrapped his arms around her, and patted her on the back.

"Thank you."

She walked away.

And he began to stare at his wall once again.

It was his comfort zone.

He heard the rain pelting against the ceiling. There were no windows. He couldn't look outside, but he was okay with that. If he looked outside, he would only think about something.

And whenever he thinks about something, it always reminds him of her.

He chooses not to think. It takes away some of the pain in his heaving chest.

He stares, and wishes it's a dream.

He wishes he could wake up before her gorgeous browns are joined with dirt.

He wishes, hopes, and prays.

He really does.

But he doesn't believe god loves him because he's not waking up.

The white wall is closer, and he's banging his head against it.

He screams to himself to wake up.

He orders himself to.

He wonders why it's not working.

"Somebody help him!" He hears someone in the background scream. He doesn't stop, and the physical pain and the white wall are the only things taking away from the emotional stabbing that's ripping apart his heart. He feels cold hands grab at his shoulders, trying to steady him. He tried to break free, but he felt more and more hands grab at him. "Get some help, someone!"

He now feels something thick and wet slipping down the side of his face. He's not fully conscious of what it is, or could be. The only thing he notices is how the physical pain is getting worse, but how the stabbing at his heart is becoming less violent.

He still won't face reality, and how he won't wake up. How odd.

He doesn't, and he tries with all his will power.

Something catches his eyes, before he began to fall over from too much pain. Her journal which fell to the ground after he began hitting his head was open to one of her entry's about him.

He could see the words _"and I think I'm in love with him…"_ scrawled out in her untidy sixteen year old handwriting.

He made an attempt to grab at her journal as people were dragging him away, but he noticed her father pick it up.

The last thing he saw before blacking out was the deep cherry brown open casket, and their wedding picture balanced against the back of it.

He slowly let himself reach the unconscious state when you pass out, but before he did he had his one last thought.

He thought about how that deep cherry wood to the casket was nothing compared to her beautiful browns.

Nothing compared.

Her mixes of brilliant browns were _so_ much prettier than that casket.

"…_They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by __**night**__."_

-Edgar Allan Poe.

**XXX**


End file.
